


Before the Dominoes

by MzMarbles



Series: The First 500 Years [2]
Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Budapest, Captivity, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 16:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5462609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MzMarbles/pseuds/MzMarbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When did Hal decide that maybe killing wasn't all it was cracked up to be?</p><p>Well over a year later and I've decided to pick up where I left off on this. Inspiration struck. So if you're looking for more of this, check out A Mad Dance (currently in progress).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the Dominoes

Obvious credit to Mr. Toby Whitehouse for the characters I did not invent. Hal and Alex belong to him and the BBC, I've just borrowed them. Everyone else just fell out of my imagination.

* * *

 

Before dominoes, before calisthenics, even before origami there has always been mediation. Quiet, methodic meditation. It used to be that sitting silently remembering each of their names and their faces was like watching a highlight reel, a trip down memory lane. Something that only made the hunger more insatiable. Now it’s a penance. It’s insurance. Rehabilitation by guilt. 

Unpleasant? Yes. 

Effective? Usually.

Brother Joshua was portly. As portly as one can be living simply in a monastery in Budapest. He was old and greying at the temples and he smelled of body odour and fish. Cleanliness was not yet next to godliness. After being starved for nine months, he would not be picky. Brother Joshua insisted on speaking to Hal in Latin, more to the point he insisted on shouting at Hal in Latin.

“Paenitentiam et salvus!” he shouted. On and on he went with a great deal of enthusiasm. Even after nine months they were still trying. The monks took it in turns to come down to the dark cellar to shout at him in Latin, through the sickness and the convulsions and the hallucinations. It had been terrifying for Hal, the longest he’d gone without blood before that was only a few days. The only comforts they offered were loud bible verses and the occasional bucket of cold river water tossed in his general direction. 

No, after this he would not be choosey. He partially feigned weakness until the smelly man of the cloth got just close enough to latch on. It would be easier than lying or trying to repent. There was little chance anyone would believe him anyway. He was finding it hard enough to believe it himself. What remained of Brother Joshua was just wide enough to use as a shield to escape the small room with the large crucifix painted on the door and every wall. 

Escape and fresh air were the priority. Brother Joshua was the last person he had killed. The rest of the monastery was spared only because the decor was too intense for one as relatively “young” as he still was. 

He had run as far as he could, it was imperative that he get as far out of the city as possible. To remain surrounded by the denizens of Budapest and temptation so soon after what he’d just endured would only lead to disaster. Discovery, and death. 

He was never quite sure which was more infuriating; that he had managed to find peace of mind in that prison and in the face of the horrible treatment or that he wanted to keep it in spite of every nerve ending that cried out for more. More blood, more carnage. 

Brother Joshua had met his untimely end only five months ago. Since then only forest animals with a poor sense of self preservation had died at Hal’s hands.

The fire crackling in the hearth slowly replaced the garbled sounds of Brother Joshua’s last attempt at words. A series of pops from a glowing log drew his attention rapidly to the present. Someone was trying to move closer only as background noise would allow and from downwind. There was a second one already at the door of the sad little cabin. The door could barely keep out a strong breeze let alone the vampire on the other side of it. There was no need to get up to investigate, he could smell them. That they hadn’t bathed in weeks did not help their efforts to be stealthy. Few things are a better give away for a vampire among their own kind than profound body odour and no heart beat. 

Cleanliness is stealthiness.

The door swung open slowly. The man standing there was slight and clad in many mismatched layers to ward off the cold. Winter was unforgiving in this part of Austria, staying inside by a fire in the isolated little cabin was what kept the surrounding villages alive. Though he was slight, Hal new the slim vampire would still be strong, but he would not be nearly as experienced as himself. 

He smiled revealing a mouth full of dark crooked teeth “We come to help,” he said in broken English, offering his open palms. Unarmed, as if a vampire needed weaponry. Though it certainly never hurt. Hal stood to close the door.

“I’m fine, but thanks,” he said and swung the door closed. The man on the other side moved faster than his disheveled appearance could ever suggest and pushed the door and Hal back so fast that the door came out of it’s rudimentary hinges and sent Hal staggering backwards into a familiar smell made solid. The other one had come in the window, he was much larger and quickly pinned Hal’s arms to his chest in a bear hug. The Skinny One approached and tried to fit a sack over Hal’s head, but instead received two feet to the chest which sent him reeling backwards. The solidity of the Big One was only useful as leverage once. The Big One grunted, shifted his grip and smashed a near-by clay pot over Hal’s head. 

The two of them hoisted a bound and, for now, unmoving Hal into a cart waiting on the road beyond the clearing.

 

Cold, hard, damp stone. And a throbbing headache. Certainly not the nicest way to wake up, but by far not the worst. There was dried blood in his hair and on the collar of his shirt.  There was a thin layer of straw beneath him. He shifted slightly and felt the weight of iron around his ankle and the tell tale tinkle of the chain. The monks had at least had the decency to just surround him with crucifixes and did away with the cages and chains. The wardens of this prison had a better idea of what they were trying to contain. He took a hold of the chain wrapping it around his hand once and tried to pull it free from the wall, it didn’t look sturdy enough to hold, but looks are deceiving. He gave up in a huff and sat against the wall.

No window and only a dying torch on the wall on the other side of the bars. There were stairs leading upwards from an opening next to it. He can hear them approaching long before they come into view, cocking his head to try to determine where the stairs lead to for future reference.

Three of them, two smelled regrettably familiar. The third one clearly bathes more frequently. Once the trio descended the stairs it was clear that the third one also had a much keener sense of fashion, well tailored, but modest in dark grey. Standing next to his henchmen in their rags there was no doubt that he was the one in charge.

“Mr. Henry Yorke, my apologies for my associates’ appalling lack of manners. Though I doubt the situation would be any different had they said ‘please’.” He approached the bars but kept out of arms reach. 

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” 

“We want nothing _from_ you Mr. Yorke, we only wish to help you. My name is Conrad, you have already met my regrettably-named associates: Pieter and Dieter,” he said nodding to the Big One and the Skinny One respectively. Hal did not bother to suppress his laughter. The embarrassing hilarity of it, subdued by hired muscle with rhyming names. He would never live it down. He would certainly never tell anyone.

“Yes, I have asked them to change their names, even one of them, but they insist. You know what brothers are like. Or maybe you don’t? I’m sure their idiot parents thought they were very clever.” Conrad slowly paced the length of the cell bars, Dieter understood just enough English to feel he should probably be offended. 

“I have heard many promising things about you Mr. Yorke,” Conrad continued. “Bruges, Ingolstadt, and handfuls of villages decimated in your futile attempt to flee that nasty business in Gloucester. Well, unfortunate for human life at least. You’ve made quite a name for yourself, how long has it been now? A hundred years? Maybe more? I shouldn’t hesitate to ask for your autograph, if it weren’t for the unfortunate state you’re in at present.

“There’s so much potential in you, Mr. Yorke. It pains me to see you throwing it all away like this.”

“I have no idea what you’re on about,” Hal said staring straight ahead, memorizing every detail of the stone wall beyond the bars. He had no delusions about his past staying in the past, but it had caught up with him far too often and too recently.

“I think you do,” Conrad said crouching into Hal’s field of vision. “You can’t deny who you are, _what_ you are. You cannot outrun your nature Mr. Yorke.”

“I beg to differ,” he said. “And I do not need your ‘help’.”

“That’s no longer up to you, I’m afraid,” Conrad said with a paternal smile. “Starvation has clearly made you mad, but it is not your fault. We know about Budapest, you can’t entirely be blamed for that,  you had no choice. But to continue to starve yourself willingly? There’s no other explanation for it other than utter madness. You’ve lost your way, Mr. Yorke and I aim to guide you back.”

Conrad nodded to Dieter who produced an elaborate metal flask from under one of his many ragged layers and passed it forward.

“Sir, you and I have a very different point of view when it comes to madness.”

“It is merely the hunger talking,” he said removing the cap and offering the flask, through the bars and temptingly close. “Drink.”

The smell was intoxicating, it was still fresh and it called to every cell in his body which began to tremble. Rabbit and fox blood were pale comparisons to what was being offered. There was simply no substitute. He began to sweat despite the cold. Hal pressed himself firmly against the wall and shook his head. He was still unwilling to go down that road, not after everything he’d put himself through.

“It’s worse than I thought.” Conrad stood and removed a key ring from his coat pocket. “Have no fear, Mr. Yorke. We are here to get you through this. Looks like you just need some assistance, and we are happy to oblige.”

Conrad unlocked the door of the cell and stepped inside followed by Pieter. Hal tried to scurry into the corner, but he knew it would be futile. Pieter’s meaty hand reached out shockingly fast and wrapped around Hal’s throat and pulled him upright against the wall. His grip was strong, but he took care not to choke. No amount of clawing or kicking seemed to loosen the grip. 

Conrad gave the flask to Pieter who pressed the opening to Hal’s tightly closed lips.

“Drink.” he said.

The sickness and convulsions and torment of getting clean was too much. If he gave up now he knew he couldn’t bring himself to try again. If he gave up now, there would be no turning back and this excursion into morality was not yet over for Hal. The overpowering aroma of fresh blood was right under his nose though.  So close. It spilled out of the flask and ran down his chin, but still he refused and abruptly spit what little was on his lips into Pieter’s face.

Pieter let go with a growl and licked his lips. Hal stumbled into the corner desperately trying to wipe his face clean.

“Don’t waste food!” he shouted and let his meaty fist loose across Hal’s jaw which cracked ever so slightly. He fell to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Pieter reached down to grab the now-limp vampire by the collar, but Conrad held him back.

“No, leave him. He must chose and he _will_ chose. It’s the only way. We must be patient. Come,” he said leading the way out and locking the gate. “We will try again when he wakes.”

 

There was still some congealing blood in the stubble of his short beard, the smell of it would never cease to tempt, even if some of that blood was his own. He tried to rub it off with his sleeve which only reminded him of why his face was throbbing. This was twice now that he’d awoken face down on the cold, stone floor with dried blood about his person and a throbbing head. The right side of his jaw seemed to have a pulse of its own, and felt like it was not quite where it should be. An incredible feat considering he hadn’t had a pulse in over a hundred years. A failed attempt to swallow only confirmed what he was afraid of. It was broken and wouldn’t budge. It wouldn’t heal quickly without blood either. 

“Bugger.”

A book snapped shut in the corner. Conrad had made himself comfortable in the corner, with a chair and a side table. He gave Hal an assessing stare. Hal had only managed to roll himself onto the straw that would have to suffice as a bed and groaned. 

“How is our patient this morning?”

Hal simply made an obscene gesture with his fingers. Talking hurt too much.

“My apologies for Pieter, he seems to have fractured your jaw. He has some rather strong convictions about wasting food. Personally I find what’s left of his meals distasteful, but he refuses to let even one drop go to waste. You know how we can be.

“Can I interest you in a little something to break your fast? It will make you feel much better.”

Hal simply rolled to face the wall. The cool stone felt soothing on his swollen cheek. He could already smell the blood in the goblets on the table.

“I’m not hearing a no,” he said.

“No!” Hal shouted to the wall, grimacing. “Leave me be.”

“Out of the question.” Conrad approached the bars with a goblet in each hand. “This is for your own good. You’ll thank me later.”

“Sod off.”

Conrad placed one of the goblets just outside of the cell, easily within easy reach and returned to his chair in the corner. He sipped from his own cup and found his place in the book he had been enjoying. 

It would be so easy. It was right there! Every part of him wanted it, every drop of it. He would lick the inside of the cup in the most undignified manner if he let himself near it. Instead he sat, cross legged and faced the wall. He would start at the beginning. 

Again.

He didn’t know her name, but he remembered every other detail about her that he learned during their tragically brief interaction. He had been given precise instructions from his maker, but they were becoming increasingly hard to focus on once he discovered how profoundly loud a heart beat was when it was within arms reach. She was slender with dark hair tucked up under a white cap. She had gone unnoticed and empty handed through the market. Earlier he had wanted to tear into the first person he came across, the hunger was so intense. He had only been fed to this point, this would be his first kill. He had been told the hunger would be easier to keep in check with prey to focus on and so he had followed carefully behind her until she reached the edge of the market place. He couldn’t believe his luck when she turned down into a close. There would be no witnesses, she was making this painfully easy for him. Perhaps his maker was right, human beings are such easy, foolish prey they deserved to be killed.

He caught up to her quickly once he was sure they were alone.

“čamu ty mianie?” she said plainly and turned on him. She had large dark eyes and soft lips. He was momentarily stunned. Never before had a meal confronted him this way. Food wasn’t supposed to talk back. 

His answer was the ultimate in uncouth, in short it was simply an attack. All impulse, no control. He was sloppy and over zealous, he missed the artery more than once.  The amount of strength he possessed surprised them both. The only thing he did correctly was ensure she could not cry out. The lasting look of shock on her face afterward would never leave Hal’s memory. He focused on those details, it was as though she wore a mask that looked like shock, she could no longer feel that way.

“What on earth are you doing?” he asked from the comfort of his chair.

He attempted an answer but stiffness had set in making speech impossible.

“What’s that, Mr. Yorke? You’ll have to speak up. Or can’t you speak at all?”

Hal simply wiped at his mouth, the proximity of fresh blood and and difficulty swallowing had made an embarrassing mess. He turned to face Conrad since all he could presently do was glare.

“It perplexes me that you would choose pain over relief, surely this must be madness. Not one of us would willingly choose this. Why don’t you drink‽”

Hal just stared at him and said nothing, enjoying Conrad’s growing frustration. He could barely smile,  it was lopsided and not as smug as he’d hoped, but the pain it caused gave him something to focus on aside from the goblet of blood that still sat within easy reach. He turned back to the wall to resume his mediation.

Number two was also nameless as so many of his early victims were but his face was as clear in his mind as when they were freshly killed.

The jingle of keys in the lock interrupted his thoughts before he had a chance to concentrate properly. Conrad had the full goblet in his hand standing just inside the door. In a blur of motion Hal would discover that Conrad did not actually need enforcers and hired muscle. He simply didn’t like to get his hands dirty. He had Hal by the throat in less than a blink of an eye. Conrad’s thumb pressed painfully into the deep bruise under Hal’s jaw. His stomach turned at the sharp pain it was causing. Just as Hal had enjoyed taunting Conrad, Conrad seemed to enjoy his new-found leverage. He laughed when he realized that Hal could not close his mouth and poured the red liquid straight down Hal’s throat.

The sudden ecstasy of it shuddered through every last nerve. Hal’s eyes blackened instantly and his fangs burst through. He grabbed at the goblet and drank every last drop, he dropped to the ground scraping every last molecule of it from inside the cup with his filthy fingers until there not a speck remained.

Conrad stood back and laughed, easily prying the empty cup from Hal’s hands. He sauntered out and locked the door behind him. He gathered up his book and the other goblet and started up the stairs.

“Now, was that so hard?” he asked, leaving Hal alone to think about just that.

 

The euphoria never lasts long enough. Even after Brother Joshua, the satisfaction waned rapidly. The high from a small goblet of blood that was already several hours old lasted barely an hour itself. Hal sat there in his cell in the corner, coming down dreadfully fast. He hadn’t wanted to drink, he had no choice. And this would not be the first or last time he would convince himself that he had no choice. It wasn’t his fault. Every hundred years or so that lie becomes easier to believe and he was always so eager to do so. 

He tried to start over again, with the nameless woman from the market, but instead of feeling guilty about it, it only made him hungrier. Mediation was always much harder to do with that metallic taste still in his mouth. His jaw was healing much faster now, not completely, bones always took longer, but he had regained movement. He would be able to resist physically if his captors decided to try forcing him to drink again, but he was no longer certain he wanted to.

He watched the torch on the wall slowly dim, it had been sometime since it had been replenished. It had been a long time since he heard any movement from the stairs or beyond. A small tremor in his hand and heavy eyelids suggested he could should try to sleep it off. He curled up in the hay and tried to forget how unbelievably hungry he was.

When he woke he found that the shaking had scattered the straw all over the cell and beyond. The torch had finally extinguished itself. It was dark, but that hardly mattered to him. The torch wasn’t necessary as anything other than a tool to show the passage of time for those who could see in the dark. Even before eternity had laid itself in front of him he had always been able to see well in the dark. One does not grow up in the shadows and out of the way in a brothel without developing keen senses. 

He could barely remember the women who raised him. He had let go of the hurt that none of them would claim responsibility for bringing him into this world. And after the carnage of the last 100 plus years now he could hardly blame them. If his mother had died giving him birth, he was glad that she never had to learn about what he had become. 

Once a year though one of the women would make a doll for him out of the straw from the neighbouring stables. He used to think that even though she couldn’t admit it, she might have been his mother. She was kind. She died when he was only eight years old, what felt like endless lifetimes ago.

He sat up and pulled the straw from his hair and sifted through the straw beneath him. He gathered strands of equal length and slowly bent them at the middle over his finger and twisted them to make a head. He tied a smaller piece of straw to secure them into a neck. He carefully threaded other shafts of straw through what would become the torso to make arms. Slowly but surely he wrapped pieces of straw to build a body and then a leg, taking care to bend the ends into a foot. 

He had almost forgotten the hunger until he heard footfalls from beyond the stairs. Regular and uneven steps and a familiar smell, two of them in fact. Light started to shimmer in the doorway as a group made their way down the narrow stairs. There was now no mistaking the sound of crying and the smell of blood. His fangs erupted involuntarily.

What fresh hell was this?

Dieter entered first with a fresh torch and placed it in the holder on the wall; he held the dead one like a truncheon. He was followed by Conrad and Pieter pulling a young woman behind him; the source of the crying. It took only seconds for him to realize that she was also the source of the smell of blood. 

Fresh hell indeed.

Conrad observed the mess Hal had made of the cell and smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Yorke. I trust you slept well.”

“What do you want now, Conrad?”

“What I have wanted from the beginning, Mr. Yorke. To help you embrace your true nature.” Conrad began to pace the length of the cell. “You can’t deny what you are, and you cannot deny that you enjoyed your last meal, can you?” 

Conrad smiled again, but there was no mirth in it.

“You had me at a disadvantage,” Hal said. “Trust me, it will not happen again.”

“You make a valid point, _that_ will not happen again. It’s clear that we need to apply more aggressive methods. No more handouts for you, Henry.” 

Conrad fished the cell key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Hal did his best to wedge himself into the furthest corner from it. It was becoming dreadfully clear what Conrad’s aggressive methods would include. The young woman was shoved into the cell, she cowered into the furthest corner of the cell as the door slammed shut and locked. 

“If you get hungry, you’ll have to kill her yourself. I don’t imagine it will take long.” He turned on his heel and motioned for his henchmen to follow. Ascending the stairs he called out behind him: “Waste not, want not. Remember that, Mr. Yorke.” 

Locked in with a hysterical, crying woman with her bloody flowers. Women went to great lengths to hide this fact from most men and society in general, but there was no way to hide it from a vampire. God, the smell of her. She was maddeningly potent. He pushed himself as far into the corner as he could. There was no denying that he would drink again if he could. He wouldn’t even hesitate, but he still couldn’t bring himself to kill for it. Not yet anyway.

He waited for her crying to simmer into unintelligible whimpers before he even tried to speak to her. He hadn’t been able to will his fangs into receding which wouldn’t help. Her quiet sobbing was starting to grate on his frayed nerves. 

“Please, stop crying!” he said. She stopped suddenly and then started up again. He hadn’t meant to shout. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

She scrunched herself into the corner with her knees up, wrapped tightly in her arms and put her head down, trying to keep the crying to herself. Hal wasn’t entirely sure that she understood him. She certainly hadn’t been given any reason to believe him if she did. 

“Do you speak English?” he asked. After a silent pause, “Sprechen sie Deutsch? Français?”

She sniffled into her skirts and mumbled, “I speak most of English, yes.”

Her accent was familiar, she couldn’t have been more than 18 years old, she was blonde and very thin bordering on unhealthy. Hal wondered how long it had been since she had eaten and whether or not it was because of poverty or captivity that she hadn’t. It seemed unlikely that Conrad would bother to feed her considering his attitude towards humanity. She was dressed simply, a peasant. Certainly not anyone who would be missed other than as labour for which a replacement was surely already found. The callouses on her hands were smooth and healing. She had probably been kept here for some time until she became useful as she now was.

She looked at Hal’s bare feet and leg iron, he followed her eyes upward until she noticed the half constructed straw figure, still clutched in his hand.

“You are toy maker?” she asked.

He looked down at the straw man that had distracted him from his hunger. There was certainly enough straw about to make a small army of them if need be. And if he was to be trapped with this bleeding woman he was going to need to.

“No, I do not make toys,” he said and plucked a strand to complete the other leg. “It settles my mind.”

“They said you are upír, that you would - ” she began to cry again.

“I am, but I do not want to harm you.”

“But, you are upír!”

“I know! Trust me I am painfully aware of that fact,” he said and redoubled his focus on constructing the arms of the straw man, carefully wrapping around the strands that made its arms and tying careful knots to ensure it would not unravel. 

He stared at the finished doll in his lap, which was no bigger than the palm of his hand, and felt sure that he remembered the little straw men being larger as a child. The woman had quietly watched him as he meticulously separated the frayed bits of straw at the end of each arm into fingers. He did not want to risk getting any closer to her than he already was so he gently tossed the figure across the cell to her and gathered a second handful of hay and began to sort it.

She reached out cautiously to take the doll, in case it was a ruse to draw her closer. She held it in both hands, inspecting Hal’s handiwork.

“For me? Why?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said carefully bending a clutch of straw to form the head of another figure. “I don’t need to keep them, I just need to make them.”

“Děkuji.”

He looked up from his craft, puzzled. He had not spoken Czech in some time and he was unsure of why he was being thanked, he had hardly done anything to warrant it in the last 90 years at least. 

“You’re welcome.”

“You are also prisoner?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I no longer kill. That man, Conrad believes that I should. That I should not be anything other than a mindless killer.”

She looked somewhat confused, she could speak ‘most of English’ but clearly not all of it. He was unsure if he could explain it or if he had the patience to do so. He continued with his craft.

“You are hungry too?” she asked. She understood better than he gave her credit for.

“Always.”

“But you do not eat.”

“Correct.”

She sat and thought about this for a moment staring at the doll in her hands then she looked at Hal and back to the doll. A sad smile played across her lips.

“You can not eat.”

“Oh, I can,” he said and she held her breath in panic. “But I choose not to. I do not want to. Not any more. I promised I would not hurt you. I aim to keep that promise.”

“I am hungry too. And thirst, but they do not let me have water,” she said. She licked her cracked lips. “I do not understand why is this.”

He looked up at her and noticed the dark circles under her eyes, she was pale even in the warm light from the torch.

“Because they do not believe you will live long,” he said. Her chin dimpled and quivered. “I am sorry. How long?”

“Two days, or three. They do not let me see outside.”

Her fate had been sealed long before she was doomed to share this cell with Hal. He imagined her healthy and cheeks flushed. She was intoxicating now due to her current condition, but she would have been irresistible, a delicacy to any vampire. No doubt Conrad had been saving her for a special occasion. Conrad had said he found Pieter’s treatment of humans distasteful, Hal found this treatment equally distasteful. Even if he could reduce her to no more than part of the food chain, his behaviour was deplorable, just on principle. The man had no taste.

He refocused his efforts on the half completed figure in his hands, fishing out the right lengths of straw from around him. He dared not venture away from his corner. He clearly did not want to kill this poor woman, but it was still safer to keep as much distance as the cell would allow. She seemed to understand this as well and did not move from her side either. 

“You have lituje,” she said. “Guilt.”

“Yes,” he said carefully placing the completed figure against the wall. He gathered yet another handful. “More than you can imagine.”

“I am tired. Is it safe to sleep?”

He didn’t look up, instead zeroing in on bending the straw with growing precision. “Yes,” he said. “Go to sleep.”

 

Nearly all the straw bedding was gone. Bit by bit it was tightly wound into being, a member of the horde of small straw people scattered throughout the cell. They were lined up against the back wall. Some of them were causally leaning against the bars, others were simply tossed into a pile and some were placed in vulgar positions. He’d started to get creative. The depths of Hal’s boredom were vast. Still the woman slept, he was beginning to wonder if she would ever wake up. She was thoroughly malnourished, but he could still hear her heart beating.

Only the bits of straw that were too short to be useful remained and acted as pillow, but a useless one. A sharp cramp stabbed at Hal’s insides, he had hoped to avoid this part this time around, it was such a small amount that he had consumed, this almost seemed unfair. The gurgling sound in his stomach told him in no uncertain terms that he might wish to take this part of the process away from where he slept. He rolled and crawled to the bars and did his best to eject all of that unpleasantness out of the cell. He could tolerate being locked up with temptation, he could even withstand the dirt and sleeping on straw, but he would not tolerate even his own vomit anywhere near him. That was taking it too far.

“You are ill?” 

He groaned, resting his head against the cool of the iron bars. He waited for the cramping and nausea to dissipate before answering her. 

“It is what happens when I do not…”

“Eat,” she said. “I see.”

He crawled back to the safety of his corner and laid his head on what was left of the straw, most of it appeared to be stuck in his hair already. 

“You made a village,” she said marvelling at the straw figures strewn about. She stifled a laugh at the ones who were _in flagrante delicto._ “You are strange, upír. You make all of these so that you do not kill me?”

He nodded.

“What will you do now there is no straws left?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do my ears deceive me?” Conrad called from the top of the staircase. “Is your dinner still alive and speaking? And what is that horrible smell?”

Conrad descended the rest of the stairs and laid his eyes on the small army of straw figurines, the vomit in the corner near the cell and two relatively alive persons behind bars. One of them dead but appearing very much alive, and the other alive but looking more and more like death. 

“This is what you have been doing all these hours! Why have you not fed?”

Hal sat up and brushed the hay from his hair.

“I told you, I am not the man you want me to be and I can’t be him anymore. Can’t you understand that?”

“Honestly? No, I can’t,” Conrad said. “Why do you reject this gift you have been given? The effort it must take. And the toll,” he said gesturing to the puddle of sick near the bars. “Is her life worth all of this personal torment?”

“Yes!” Hal shouted. “Hers and mine and all the people I won’t have to kill.” 

“You know she will not live no matter what you do.” 

“Why do you care so much about what I do and what I don’t do. Frankly, with my insatiable appetite you should be _thanking_ me for removing myself from the top of the food chain, more for you and your henchmen.”

“You have no idea of the danger you pose by continuing in this way, do you? How long do you expect to keep this up? Months, years, decades. You forget that we can live forever, Mr. Yorke. And when you crumble and give in, do you think it will go unnoticed? Gloucester will look like a mere scraped knee compared to the bloody, gaping wound you would leave on Europe to satisfy yourself. Do you think this human world that we live in will just forget about you and the destruction you have caused? That you would inflict on them? And what of the impact on our world? You do not realize that other’s look to you for guidance, they cannot follow you on this path, compounding the destruction and madness among our own kind. It will lead to our discovery, manhunts, executions.

“ _That_ is why I care,” he said leaning on the bars. “You cannot be allowed to sign the death warrant for our kind because you are afflicted with a sudden case of _human_ morality or madness or whatever it is that you call this childish nonsense.”

Hal sat speechless for a moment. He hadn’t given his moral affliction any more thought beyond the notion that he did not want to continue killing. He had been sloppy at times over the past century, he had lost control in Gloucester so he ran. Every time he tried to reign it in it backfired horribly.

“Kill her, now.”

“No.”

Conrad fumed and fumbled for his key. “Gentlemen!”

Pieter and Dieter descended the stairs, Pieter glared at Hal like a parent displeased that their ungrateful child would not eat what they were given. Conrad opened the cage.

“Clear out everything, the disgusting figures, the straw. Everything. No distractions.”

Hal tried to charge the door but ran into a wall of Pieter who easily held Hal against the wall with one hand while Dieter cleared everything out. The pile of straw was gathered in the centre of the room and set alight withe the wall torch. 

“You have one hour, Mr. Yorke,” Conrad stated, locking the cell door. “If I come down here to find that she is still living I will give her over to Pieter, and you know my thoughts on that. And then you will start again. This does not end until you embrace who you are.”

The trio ascended the stairs leaving their captives to their fates. The smouldering embers of the torched straw men at least cast some warmth through the otherwise cold, damp room.

“What is he meaning by saying he gives me to the fat one if you do not… if you don’t…”

Hal sat back against the wall. “Pieter, the fat one does not like waste. I don’t like to think about what lengths he will go to to make sure not a drop of your blood is wasted. It will not be pretty, I’m sorry.”

Hal of course knew how to make use of every last drop and it was a most undignified way to treat one’s food source. It was part of the reason why he fled from Gloucester, and what had helped to build his name in the villages he decimated along the way. It was an act of the desperate and the cruel alike.

“You should do what he says.”

Hal just regarded her as Conrad regarded him, as some one out of their mind.

“I can’t.”

“You can, you said so. I will not live through this,” she said. “I would prefer that my murderer can feel guilt. That man, Pieter, he will feel no lítost, if I must die then I want it to be you, who have been kind. You who will be sad that I am dead, sad that you kill me.”

She produced the straw figure that he had given her when she arrived. “You who can make this can be kind. Not like them.”

“I make no promises to you about remorse or guilt. Conrad is right, blood changes everything. I would not still be this person that you think of as kind. Your death would be a mercy to you, but it would be the first of many … more than you can imagine.”

She held the doll in her lap.

“You will remember this small mercy, I think,” she said. “To save us from the monsters.”

She tried to stand but lacked the strength to do so and tried to crawl.

“No, don’t,” Hal said and moved towards her instead. He lay next to her and against the wall. He slipped an arm under her shoulder to support her head and rested the other across her torso. He could feel her ribs through the fabric of her dress. Malnourished as she was she was still more than sufficient to feed from. 

“What is your name?” he asked.

“My name is Katarina,” she said and laughed quietly. “I do not know your name this whole time.”

“Henry,” he said and gently brushed the hair away from her neck and continued to hold her close. He continued to run his fingers through her hair while supporting her head. “Where do you come from Katarina? Tell me about your family.”

“I am from near Cesky Krumlov, a small farm land near it. Bad winter took my parents, matka to sickness and otec from the cold. Only my brother and I were left to bury them, but we could not tend the land. We had to leave to work, to live. I do not know if my brother still lives.”

Through this Hal could not take his eyes from her neck. She spoke about her travels south, she laboured, she had spent time as a concubine for a town magistrate. She had been running from life for sometime, not as long as Hal had of course, but for most of her short life. She lay there weaving a tapestry for Hal of all the pitfalls and small victories. 

“I learn English from soldiers who go through the city looking for comforts. Before they leave to die or kill, I don’t know.”

She fell silent and nuzzled closer, “Děkuji”

“Close your eyes,” he said and leaned closer, shifting to hold her head and arms gently. She had asked for this, the least he could do was try to make as comfortable as he could. “I am so sorry,” he breathed into her neck. His teeth easily and precisely pierced her throat. She tensed immediately and he held her with little effort. She made no sound as he drank, his enthusiasm growing with every swallow, every drop of her. He refused to allow himself to tear into her as he had warned her that he might. She died without another word and he made sure he left nothing behind for Pieter to salvage, it need not be as savage as what Pieter would have done.

He laid her on the cold stone when he was finished and wiped the blood from his chin and her neck with the sleeve of his shirt. She still had the straw figure in her hand, he tucked it into a pocket of her dress. 

He retired to his corner and waited. He had thought before he killed her that he would sit quietly and repent, that he could feel bad about it, but the euphoria was incredible, undeniable. She had tasted exquisite even though she had been so malnourished. He imagined how she would have tasted when she was more full of life. And he wanted more. He needed more. The sound of Conrad descending the stairs barely broke through the reverie in his mind, but failed to completely draw his attention.

“Well done, Mr. Yorke. I knew you would rather do this than allow Pieter to… well we both know how we feel about that.”

“Not a drop remains,” Hal said and looked up at his captor. “Keep that monster from her and bury her properly. At least give her that.”

“Rest assured we take great care in disposing of the remains of our meals. Remember we still wish to avoid detection.”

“Good, can I leave now? I’ve done what you wanted.”

“You have done what you had little choice to do, she looks very peaceful, you were well restrained. At least compared to what I have heard about you,” he said unlocking the door. “Tell me, was it your idea to kill her or was it hers?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it does.  Absolutely it does. It was her, wasn’t it?”

“She consented, yes. She’d rather I did it than be torn apart.”

“Dieter!” he called back to the stairs. “This just means that we move to the next stage. You see if you had been able to take care of this _yesterday_ as you should have you could have been a free man by now. Fear not, I suspect this stage will be rather short and the last one you require.”

“What else do you want me to do. I killed an innocent woman, I drank her dry. What does it matter if I wanted to or not?!”

Dieter descended the stairs and dutifully removed Katarina’s body. Hal’s patience was wearing thin even through the high he was riding. 

“You must chose to do it. Allow your instinct to take over. Embrace who you are, Henry. Because the next one will be armed.”

Their conversation was broken by the sounds of struggling and uneven footsteps coming down the steps. Like her predecessor she was also badly concealing her menses, but her heart was pounding a fiery rhythm, this one was full of life and would not sit quietly in the corner waiting for her end to come. He could hear her swearing in German as Pieter carried her down the stairs kicking and screaming.

“I never said I would make this easy for you, Mr. Yorke,” Conrad said producing a long wooden stake from his long coat. Pieter set the woman down and Conrad handed her the weapon. Showing her the sharp end and explaining in the simplest terms where it should be placed. She took it and looked at Hal and back to Conrad who swung the door open, Pieter shoved her through quickly. The door slammed firmly behind her.

Conrad’s plan worked like a charm. Hal’s eyes darkened and his fangs burst through. He was all instinct. The woman raised the stake in her right hand high in defence, a poor angle even if she stood a chance. He blocked her arm easily with his right in a back handed motion and seized her by the hair at back of her head with his other hand pulling her backward and down over his knee. He wasted no time in burying his teeth in her neck.

 

She was almost sure she could hear crying or whimpering. She muted the tele and listened closely. Yes, Alex was definitely hearing something from upstairs. Tom wasn’t one for nightmares, she knew exactly where it was coming from. She made her way up the stairs as loudly as she could, it was never a good idea to sneak up on Hal when he was upset. Whether he was awake or not.

She stopped just outside his door, the muttering and the whimpering seemed to stop. She cracked the door open to peek inside. He was still asleep on his back but he was twitching. 

“Tread carefully, Alex,” she whispered to herself and came in shutting the door behind her gently. She rent-a-ghosted herself to the sofa just to be sure she was a safe distance and to not make a sound. He would wake eventually and it would not be pretty. Sometimes he would just go back to sleep, other times he would start doing press ups. If it was bad he would just lay there and weep. By the sounds of it, Alex was sure this one would end in at least 200 press-ups. Hal would never admit it, but Alex knew he appreciated it when she was there when he woke up gasping and sweaty.

Which should be any moment now, if that furrowed brow was any indication, but instead an eerie stillness came over him. She took a couple steps closer to confirm if this was a false alarm, but stayed out of arms reach. That was a lesson she only needed to learn once.

His lip curled involuntarily and a fang poked out. Yes, this would be a bad one, she retreated to the safety of the couch, ready to teleport the hell out of there and lock the door if need be.

His right arm swung out from the blanket viciously, his left seemed to reach out and clutch at the air dragging himself upright,  hissing, fangs on display, eyes black to prey on something only he could see. He blinked and saw he was about to attack his blanket, he seemed relieved that his hands were empty. Realization dawned slowly that he had been asleep, he was not there in that dark cellar any longer. He could taste blood still, but he had bit his own tongue in his sleep. 

He blinked away the black and shook his head taking in his surroundings, his unnecessary breath coming in jagged heaves. He jumped again when he saw Alex sitting on the sofa.

“Want to talk it out?” she asked. “Or do you need to do, like a thousand press ups first?”

“Christ, Alex! Why are you watching me sleep?”

“I wasn’t, not really,” she said. “I heard you muttering from downstairs. You’re a noisy sleeper sometimes, Hal.”

“I am not,” he said pulling the blankets back up with shaky hands. “And before you even start, no I do not wish to talk about it. Not now, probably not ever.”

“Oh… Are you sure about that sugar?” she said. “Because your still flashing those pointy pearly whites of yours. Should I lock the door on my way out?”

He pursed his lips to hide his fangs until they retreated, then flung the covers back, dropped to the carpet and started press ups.

“One, two, three…” he counted. Alex just sat and watched for a moment. Hal didn’t wear pyjamas, just pants.

“Do you want me to leave?” she asked. But he simply kept counting. Eyes fixed on the floor, perfect form, he seemed to have forgotten she was there. She quietly ghosted a book from his shelf to read until he finished. Which is not to say she wasn’t distracted, but she felt less creepy if she at least pretended to try to read a book. 

Hal ignored her through 200 press ups and 200 sit ups and even when he looked at her he looked past her to the window. There was a vague hint on the horizon that the sun would be up soon. He sighed, stood and made his way to the shower. He had built up a sheen of sweat before the press ups had started.

When he returned wearing a towel in place of his pants he deflated a little to find that she was still sitting on the sofa. It was becoming apparent that she was not going to let it go. Having woken earlier than usual, there was extra time in his rota. He dressed carefully, Alex granted him some privacy in raising the book to block her view. Once his hair was combed the bed was made he sat down beside her on the sofa and stared straight ahead. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to get out your dominoes or rearrange the pantry or maybe weed the front garden first?”

She was joking, but wouldn’t be surprised if he suddenly did find something else to do in an effort to avoid her. It wouldn’t be the first time and for a brief moment he seemed to consider it, but instead closed his eyes and steadied himself instead. Alex closed the book and popped it back on the shelf exactly as she’d found it. Best not to distract him further.

“Her name was Katarina,” he said

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Mad Dance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10205627) by [MzMarbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MzMarbles/pseuds/MzMarbles)




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